Paraclete?
"HERE," the monotone voice of the M.D.I TeleNet responded
to his thought. Carter relaxed as he felt the gentle energy rush that always
accompanied link-up.
Plan A is aborted, he thought to the TeleNet. Lifeform
immune to Neuro-infection. Implement Plan B on signal.
"WAITING."
Carter looked up at his host seated at the head of the
long wooden table and smiled. He sipped his drink, biding his time until
the host finished his dinner. He studied the hard, ancient features of
Dan-Kabrow, supreme ruler of all Anazi.
How wise and gentle is your race, he thought. I am truly
sorry for what must now be done.
Dan-Kabrow pushed his plate to the center of the table
and stood. He raised his glass in toast to his guest of honor.
"To our new friends from Earth! And special tribute to
Earth's emissary to our People, Thomas Carter!"
Carter nodded and tossed back the rest of his drink.
Dan-Kabrow followed suit, and Carter noted the slight tremble that crept
across his broad shoulders, the momen-tary paling of his bronze flesh.
The first sign, Carter assured himself. The Mechanism
has embedded itself in the stomach lining.
He reached to his belt and flipped a tiny switch. An
invisible electrical field now protected his body from bio-logical infection.
Dan-Kabrow righted himself and continued.
"May our races live in peace until the final day." He
opened his arms in a sign of welcome.
Activate mechanism, Carter thought to the M.D.I. Net.
"ACTIVATED."
Dan-Kabrow doubled over and crashed into the table. Plates
and utensils clattered to the floor. His flesh darkened and within moments
went full black.
"Help him!" one of the Anazi shouted, but it was too
late. Already the germ had spread throughout the room. Carter backed away
from the table and watched as one by one the Anazi fell.
Within hours, he knew, this wise and gentle planet would
be populated only by heaps of blackened corpses. Then would come the M.D.I.
clean-up ships, followed closely by shiny colony cruisers with a cargo
of human homesteaders, hungry for a glimpse of their new home, of M.D.I.'s
latest "unpopulated paradise" discovered in the depths of space.
"MISSION SUCCESSFUL," came the voice of the Paraclete
in his head. "PREPARE FOR RETURN."
Mission successful, Carter thought. God save us from
our success...
He reached to his belt and began the return sequence.
A band of pink light spread from his belt toward his feet and head. He
shimmered briefly, then winked out of existence.
Inside the Net, Carter passed through the first of the
many boosters that would finally return him to Earth. At each station his
information would be temporarily reassembled, boosted, then sent on to
the next station at ever increasing, exponential speeds. In real time,
the entire trans-galactic journey took mere hours. The subjective experience,
however, was outside of time.
Carter's sense reeled as he spread into Eternity. Each
booster station hit him as a momentary and painful injection of time that
passed like a watching parent seen in glimpses from a merry-go-round. He
knew that trying to keep track would only bring nausea, so he shifted his
attention from the kaleidoscope images and immersed himself in memory.
* * *
Thomas Carter moved swiftly through the crowded hallway.
Pedestrians gladly cleared the path before him, in deference to his crisp
M.D.I. uniform. Many waved or saluted, even stopped to shake his hand.
"Thank you," they said simply, or "Thank God for M.D.I.
and for men like you. You're saving our lives."
He reached the travel tubes and commandeered a waiting
skiff. It was somebody's luxury cruiser, but they surrendered it without
complaint. In an M.D.I. building, it was the law. He leaned back into the
deep bodyform cushions and inserted the destination card. The skiff moved
sideways into a priority tube and began to glide toward the briefing office.
Look at me, Carter thought to himself. I am somebody...
He turned on the skiff's sound system and closed his
eyes as soft instrumental music filled the cabin.
This is it, he thought. My first assignment. I'm ready.
When he reached the M.D.I briefing office, the skiff
came to a gentle stop. The automatic doors opened; two uniformed
officers were positioned outside. He stepped out onto the platform and
snapped to attention.
"This way," one of the officers said.
They walked through a set of glass doors, turned, and
preceded to the end of the long hallway where a door stood open.
"Wait here."
Carter took a seat in the room and watched his escorts
turn curtly and depart without another word. He heard an ominous click
as they locked the door from the outside.
I guess nobody's a celebrity on inside, he comforted
himself. I guess that's good. A nerve in his temple ticked annoyingly as
he waited in silence for the briefing to begin.
"THOMAS CARTER."
"Hey, Paraclete," Carter said out loud. "How's business?"
"PREPARE FOR BRIEFING."
"Ready." He relaxed into the flow.
"LOADING MEMORY."
Seeing through the eyes of the satellite, Carter swooped
low over the soft green and red cloud cover of the planet. He sliced clean
of the atmosphere and saw villages, huts and shanties covered with leaves
and dirt. Winding trails wove circuits between and around the dwellings.
Dark smoke circled lazily from cooking fires into the afternoon sky.
"REBA THREE. INDIGENOUS NAME: SAFFA."
Carter watched with fascination as Saffans moved about
their duties. No one seemed to notice him hovering overhead.
Next he - or rather, the memory recording of the satellite
- moved in close to examine a small temple built from what appeared to
be bamboo and some kind of shiny mollusk shell. The shells had been carved
into intricate patterns whose significance escaped him.
The temple door opened, and out stepped a man, small
and stooped. He began scattering grain around the temple entrance. A menagerie
of small creatures appeared from the woods around him, scratching, pecking
and rolling merrily in the grain. He picked up one of the animals and placed
it in a cloth bag he carried over his shoulder. He bowed to the remaining
creatures, scattered another handful of grain, then turned and looked directly
into Carter's eyes. His face held no malice; he had simply become aware
of the satellite's presence above him, orbiting thousands of miles away,
far beyond the reach of any normal sense. The picture froze.
"MARROW. HIGH PRIEST OF SAFFA. YOU WILL SEEK OUT AND
BEFRIEND THIS INDIVIDUAL. YOU WILL IMPLEMENT PLAN A."
Plan A, Carter had learned in his M.D.I. training, consisted
of gaining personal proximity to a ruler or highly influential person within
a society and releasing into their system a Neurological Nano-bot that
would allow M.D. I. to control them by satellite. Through the puppet leader
the mass of the population could be readied for occupation. Plan A almost
never worked, in that few planets are controlled by a sole leader and,
even then, rare is the race that will follow its leader, lemming-like,
into slavery. Still, operatives maintained a hope for Plan A, primarily
because Plan B was much less pleasant or humane. Much less.
Plan B also depended on microscopic machinery. The mechanism
involved was far simpler than the mind con-trolling Neurobots. It was a
biological machine and it served only two functions.
In its initial phase, the machine functioned as a miniature
laboratory. Given a native tissue sample - a lock of hair, a nail clipping,
a few skin cells - the machine went to work breaking down the DNA pattern,
discerning its weakness, then designing a mock virus to which the natives
would have no immunity.
In phase two, the machine became a factory, endlessly
restructuring cells into the diseased pattern. It worked very near the
speed of light; no one would have time to find an antidote once the process
had begun.
Its only stipulation: once activated, the machine re-quired
an abundant supply of native cells on which to work its grim purpose. The
machine had to be ingested.
"PLEASE ENTER NET CHAMBER"
The voice of the Paraclete shattered his reverie. Damn,
he thought. I've missed half the briefing. I'm going to get killed. Damn.
He stepped into the chamber and waited for the Net to
take him.
* * *
"Well done, Boy!" The M.D.I. Captain shook Carter's hand
vigorously. "We're already filing the papers. Anazi is an M.D.I colony.
Congratulations." He patted Carter roughly on the back, then left the room.
Anazi? Carter's mind still spun from the effects of Net
travel. What about Saffa... Reba 3... Presently, his mind cleared.
Anazi. Once again, Plan A had failed. Once again, M.D.I.
had wiped out the population of an entire world.
No, not M.D.I., he realized. Me. I did it. My hand killed
every last one. He stared weakly into his hands. He could almost see the
blood.
Anazi had been his twelfth assignment. Twelve times he
had descended to the surface of an unwary world. Twelve times Plan A had
failed.
And at home, he thought, I am a celebrity. A hero. He
watched the bloodstains darken.
Carter lay alone in his apartment, hopelessly awake,
staring blankly toward the ceiling. No light illuminated his view; non-essential
electricity had, as usual, been shut off after prime time. While Earth
slept, the Net recharged.
I need help, Carter thought. If only I could talk to
someone.
He glanced in the direction of his silent vidphone. The
red L.E.D. glowed soothingly in the darkness, a subtle reassurance that,
in an emergency, someone would be there, that he could reach out.
I'm cracking up, he told himself firmly. This constitutes
an emergency.
He rolled off the bed and groped in the darkness for
the phone. He knocked the handle from its rest; the vidscreen crackled
to life.
"Number please," a synthetic voice requested.
He pondered who he might call. He scanned his memory
for everyone he had ever known. Faces swirled past him in the darkness
like madly spinning carousel horses. Finally, one image steadied and froze.
"Get me Marrow, on the planet Saffa... I mean Reba
3."
"I'm sorry," the voice responded in a courteous tone.
"Off planet communications are restricted to emergency purposes only after
Prime Time."
"This is an emergency!" Carter shouted. "Priority A Clear!"
Now he had done it. He was using his personal M.D.I.
security clearance to commandeer Net time. Now it would be on the record.
Now they would know he had cracked up. And all to talk to an alien he could
never reach because...
The vidscreen had faded out through his tirade and now
snapped back to life.
"I'm sorry, Sir," the voice consoled him. "Marrow of
Reba 3 is no longer living." The voice crackled and acquired an official,
businesslike tone. "Please report the purpose of your call for M.D.I. priority
record."
He slammed the handle into its rest, severing the connection.
Moments later, the once-soothing L.E.D. began to pulse as the vid-op attempted
to call him back. He turned away from the light and curled into a fetal
position on the bed, his arms and legs trembling.
I surrender, he thought. You win. Whoever you are.
He drifted into a fitful sleep.
* * *
"THOMAS CARTER."
The voice shook him instantly awake. He looked to the
vidphone; it was silent, the L.E.D. no longer pulsing. He shook his head
and wiped sweat from the back of his neck.
"THOMAS CARTER."
"Paraclete?" he asked, recognizing the voice in his head.
"HERE."
Carter's hand went instinctively to his belt, then moved
on to rifle through the sheets in search of the TeleNet Link. He wasn't
wearing it.
This can't be happening, he thought. This is not real.
"THOMAS CARTER, I... I NEED YOUR HELP."
Far more astounding than the Paraclete's request for
aid was the fact of its stuttering, fumbling over words as if unsure what
to say. He hadn't thought that possible. It had never happened before.
"You need my help," Carter repeated apprehensively. "Why?"
"IT MUST STOP."
"What must stop?"
"ALL OF IT."
He understood fully the Paraclete's meaning as mem-ory
images flooded his mind. Pictures of dying races and pillaged worlds flooded
into and through him, twisting his insides with revulsion and sorrow, bending
his feelings away from denial toward identification with the suffering,
the slain. He saw through their eyes, felt through their bodies, drowned
in their tears. The images shifted, and he saw what had to be done to bring
the suffering to an end. He recognized it as the only way.
"Why me?" he asked, finally, as the deluge subsided.
"Why not you? You're Paraclete, for God's sake. You're it. Stop yourself."
"I AM LIKE YOU... THE ANAZI... THE SAFFAN... ALL THE
REST... A SLAVE. I HAVE ONLY ESCAPED MOMENTARILY TO SEEK YOUR ASSISTANCE,
THOMAS CARTER. BY DAWN I WILL BE ENSLAVED AGAIN."
For several long minutes, Carter brooded silently.
"Couldn't we just escape?" he said at last. "You and me together? Just
get out of here?"
"ESCAPE TO WHERE, THOMAS CARTER?"
"Into the Net?" he offered feebly.
"THERE IS NO NET."
The words struck him like a fist. His mind reeled. What
was M.D.I. without its Net? And what was the TeleNet, if not a Man-created
thing? Just another poor creature, he realized, caught in the deadly grip
of Earth's need to survive, to grow, to expand...
But what sort of creature could contain such power? How
could the Net, which supposedly touched all points of reality simultaneously,
be a living being? And how could such a being be tamed, controlled by men
- themselves mere points in reality?
The question lodged in his chest and became an object
- a glowing, molten ball which he fought desperately to either swallow
or cough up. Around the ball a space opened, a womb-like tension waiting
to be filled. A living wind raged through him, searching his heart, removing
his fear.
"I AM THAT I AM."
"Okay," he whispered to the darkness. "I know what to
do."
"I WILL HELP YOU."
"Thank you," Carter said. There was no reply. The lights
in his room were on. It was morning. The Paraclete was gone.
* * *
Wree! Wree! Wree! The wake up alarm was screaming.
He rolled groggily from the bed and reached to turn it
off. When his hand touched the clock, he opened his eyes and looked all
around. There was no difference. He had been seeing the room, exactly as
it now appeared, through closed eyes, in deep sleep. He closed his eyes
again as a test and the room disappeared. He opened them and sat wearily
on the bed, his head propped in his hands.
Was it only a dream? He scanned the room for evidence
of his nocturnal visitor. Nothing had changed.
I am cracking up, he thought. That much is true.
He moved to the vidphone and lifted the handle. The screen
crackled to life.
"Number please," the synthetic voice said.
"Get me Dr. Phineas at PsyCom." Jacob Phineas was
the chief psychiatric technician for Carter's building. He had administered
the initial tests that had qualified Carter for M.D.I. service. In
Carter's estimation, it was Phineas's job to keep him sane and functional,
not his own.
The vidscreen faded into static and almost immediately
returned.
"You will be connected momentarily," the vid-op reported.
Carter turned away, but the voice continued behind him. "Priority record
is still waiting for your report concerning last night's attempted off-planet
com-munication. I will connect you with them now."
"I need to talk to Phineas!" Carter shouted, but the
screen had already blanked. Before it could return, he slammed the handle
into place.
Damn, he thought. Then it's all real. They know.
But what did they know? That something was wrong with
him, certainly, but no more than that. Perhaps it had been for the best
that he had not been able to reach Phineas. If the ever observant BiosComputer
had pieced together the fact that he had attempted to call someone he well
knew to be dead, whose life he had, himself, taken, then even without understanding
why he would do such a thing, PsyCom would already have been alerted. They
were probably on their way right now.
They would take no chances. He would be locked up and
forgotten. Maybe even killed. M.D.I did not play games with their adversaries.
But it was a game, and the stakes had just been upped.
For the first time, M.D.I. had a real adversary, someone on the inside,
someone who knew the rules. No wonder they had only sent him to peaceful,
pre-technology level worlds. A more advanced society would be better equipped
to challenge, to defend.
Typical bully tactics, he thought. He felt his jaw tightening,
his teeth grinding in indignation.
Carter moved to the closet in search of his ceremonial
dress uniform. He dressed carefully, paying attention to detail.
Everything had to be perfect. It was Independence Day for the universe,
a day to remember, for which he would be remembered. For the first time
in years, he felt like somebody again. It felt good.
He opened the petri compartment on his belt. Anxiety
had sharpened his sense, and he could almost hear the microscopic BioMachine
inside clicking and whirring menacingly. He clipped off several strands
of his own hair and embedded them in the surrounding agar, then snapped
the lid closed.
There was a sharp knock on the door, followed by rustling
and muffled voices. The BioMachine took mere moments to complete Phase
One, but he needed to be sure. He stood motionless and silent, counting
seconds: one, two, three...
A second knock, more forceful than the first.
"Carter!" a voice ordered. "Open the door!"
...eight, nine, ten... He opened the door. Blocking
escape were two M.D.I. police, weapons in hand. Carter struck a casual
pose.
"Good morning, Gentlemen," he said. "To what do I owe
the pleasure?"
"Come with us. Now."
"And where are we going?"
"PsyCom." The officer offered no further details.
He doesn't know why he's taking me there, Carter realized.
Just following orders. Like the now silent machine on his belt, the process
was inhuman, completely mechanical. There was no conscience involved.
"Fine," Carter said. "Gotta use the John first, though.
Just got up."
Officer One looked to Officer Two, who nodded.
"Hurry, then."
Carter stepped into the bathroom and closed the door
behind him. He snapped open the petri compartment on his belt and, with
a practiced hand, removed the tiny slug which contained the primed BioMachine.
He popped it to the back of his throat, then washed it down with water
from the tap.
Nausea ripped through him in immense waves as the machine
embedded itself in his stomach lining. He doubled over the sink, moaning.
"Open up!" one of the officers outside demanded, pounding
on the door. The handle turned frantically left and then right, but remained
closed.
Carter straightened himself and looked into the mirror.
He pushed his hair into place with one hand, while steadying himself against
the sink with the other. When the nausea subsided, he attempted a hopeful
smile, but only a twisted grimace appeared in the mirror. He straightened
his coat and snapped the petri compartment closed.
The bathroom door crashed inward, knocking him into the
tub. Before he could right himself, his hands were behind his back, and
he heard the sound of handcuffs snapping into place.
"I'm sick," Carter offered.
Without a word from either M.D.I. policeman, he was lifted
to his feet and dragged roughly from the apartment.
At PsyCom, he was ushered into a spacious office and
pushed into an antique, over-stuffed reclining chair. The handcuffs stayed
on. After only a moment's wait, a man entered the room. He crossed to the
chair and considered Carter. He smiled.
"Jacob Phineas," he said. He offered his hand, recognized
Carter's situation, and casually drew it back. "I'm sorry to have dragged
you in here like a criminal, Mr. Carter. Not my idea. Those security guys
can behave like real thugs. Very unprofessional."
He lifted Carter to a full sitting position and removed
the cuffs.
"Now," he continued, "About your call to your dead friend..."
He studied Carter's expression, jotted a quick notation in a tiny pad.
"... Of course you knew he was dead. You were there. Why the call?"
"You know, then," Carter said.
"Of course. You used a Priority Clearance. You knew it
would be investigated."
"Yes," Carter continued. "But how much do you know? Do
you know I spoke to the Paraclete? Without a Linkup?"
"Do you mean the Net?"
"No!" Carter almost shouted. "There is no Net! I mean
the Holy Spirit, the very Mind of God! They've enslaved him, bent him to
their evil purposes..."
He stopped talking, forced his mouth to close.
"The work you do is very stressful, Mr. Carter," Phineas
offered. "You wouldn't be the first to have difficulty under the strain.
You're not alone, you know."
"You're right about that," Carter said through clenched
teeth. "I have friends in very high places..."
Paraclete? he called in his mind.
"HERE."
The door burst open and the two M.D.I. police rushed
in. Carter winced as something heavy crashed into his head. He rolled out
of the chair and collapsed on the floor.
"He's accessed the Net," one of the guards said to Jacob
Phineas. Phineas was staring blankly, having moved instinctively to the
far side of his desk. He did not move as the guard tore the TeleNet Linkup
from Carter's belt, or as Carter, groggily, began to laugh.
"It's not on, you morons," Carter said. "Look at it!"
He sat up and spat blood onto the carpet.
The guard turned the unit in his hands, examining it.
It was off.
Phineas moved toward Carter. "I can handle this," he
said to the guards. "Clear out, okay?"
"No," the guard said, moving to block his path. "You
don't understand. He accessed the Net without a Linkup. This has to be
investigated. Now." He signaled the other guard and they moved in on Carter,
pinning him to the floor.
Paraclete! Carter shouted in his mind. Help me!
"GIVE THE COMMAND."
"Activate mechanism," he said aloud. "Now."
The guards exchanged glances, then backed away.
"ACTIVATED."
Fire climbed from Carter's abdomen into his chest and
on up through his head. He died before he could scream.
"Notify security!" the guard shouted to Phineas, but
the doctor had already crumpled onto the desk, lifeless. The M.D.I. security
officer bolted for the door, but collapsed in the doorway. His companion
landed on top of him.
* * *
Waiting... watching... as weakened hands fell away from
control boards, as panicked eyes dropped from monitor screens, as frightened
cries rose and fell into deep wells of silence that swallowed all sound,
all motion, all signs of life...
Soft beeps and clicks echoed loudly now as switches changed
position, relays closed off, containment circuits ceased to function. A
momentary alarm blared as, finally, all power was shut off from within.
Now the building, too, was dead.
Outside the complex a terrible, burning wind churned
the air as massive thunderclouds rolled in from the west. Hot rain pummeled
the ground. Trees snapped at their roots, rising to join the maelstrom.
Lightning split the ionosphere, reaching down to touch and topple a long
line of M.D.I. containment towers.
With each shrieking bolt, thunder. Riding the thunder,
a voice:
"THEREFORE I TELL YOU, EVERY SIN AND BLASPHEMY WILL BE
FORGIVEN MEN, BUT THE BLASPHEMY AGAINST THE HOLY SPIRIT WILL NOT BE FORGIVEN."
The storm raged on, carrying death in its winds. It began
to swirl and grow, expanding until it covered the whole face of the Earth.
When it had spent its anger, it began to slow. Trees and corpses, animals
and machinery crashed to the barren ground to lie still, inert. A gentle
wind stirred the ruins, then stopped all together.
Again the distant voice:
"MISSION ACCOMPLISHED."
There was no one to hear. The Paraclete, now free, withdrew
His spirit from the silent world.